Monday, March 24, 2014

menses and scarp


Wyatt back
from the farflung
hauling home
home the sonnet
eek the heart that 'pon it
as if by dogs
from anchorage to nome
curseth the cadence and all what don it

(barrage-creeping firewall and their equi/v/alents

in the cerebellum but what of such War?):
—more of this later—the red barn
its proxies that tinge
through the psychotropes where one ought only
to hear of smoking idylls? for what a word's worth etc?
there are creatures, one cries, creatures


smoking kills— so many smoking kills
—so many, but the e-mote seems at once

spurious spouting when with such windows or other
outfalls already
like this or...

[ore] the broadcast seams
worked out (work doubt!)
by forcèd men with baskets where the Sun:
your many smoking kills where the Sun
at low angles in the woods; the Sun at Low

—Angles in the Woods Cry Havoc low
an gills
in the cerebella
only you could ever, only you

monster, your many smoking skill


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